Curing a Rash on the Face

In 1996, I began to develop occasional rashes on my face. I made appointments with dermatologists, who labeled the rashes “contact dermatitis” but were unable to trace the cause. One suggested that I was allergic to poison ivy. I wondered how I came into contact with an ivy vine. As Kiko, one of my cats, often ventured into a neighbor’s yard where poison ivy grew beneath a hedge, I decided that I was transferring urushiol, the plant’s irritating oil, from Kiko to my face.

The rash frequently became so bad that the area beneath one of my eyes would puff up, closing my eye somewhat. The area around my nose would become so red and stretched that I felt great discomfort. The swelling lasted for many days. My dermatologists prescribed steroids and various medicinal creams. Once the rash abated, my face became scaly with flakes of dead skin drifting away like dandruff.

In 2011, I attended a conference as a guest speaker, and—drat the luck!—I acquired a face rash again. It was in full bloom when I spoke to the crowd. One of my eyes was almost closed. I felt deeply embarrassed.

… so embarrassed, in fact, that I rejected what dermatologists had told me and began researching my rash online.

I will always remember the day when I stumbled onto a website with a disgusting close-up of mites burrowing into a pore of the skin on a person’s face. Could my rashes be mite attacks? I read more. The mites that cause mange in dogs can cause rashes on human faces. I had acquired a puppy with mange in 1996. Its problem was cured, but a number of mites probably remained on the dog and were routinely conveyed to my face.

Products Containing Tea Tree Oil

To kill the microscopic mites, I visited a health store and bought a bar of tea tree soap and a tub of cream containing tea tree oil. I applied the soap to my face and—I kid you not—felt immediate relief! For about a week after each shower, I applied some of the cream to my rash, which rapidly went away.

Since 2011, I have had no more rashes! Yes, I have been entirely free of them! Any time I see a small pimple beginning to form on my face, I use my soap containing the tea tree oil and a small dab of the cream.

I am not recommending products containing tea tree oil as a cure for facial rashes that other people experience. I am not a medical doctor, and I know that rashes can result from many causes. I am truly not in a position to suggest that anyone else try what I tried.

… but I rejoice in the fact that I cured an embarrassing rash that my dermatologists could not cure.

Rustic Prints 6 (Last Installment in This Series)

What is not to love about this rustic print? It glows within the mat as if filled with its own light. The blue sky and white clouds are true to a summer’s day. A pleasant cottage with a white fence is barely discernible beneath the branches of the welcoming tree. A man walks a large fluffy dog by the trunk. Farmers load bundles of wheat, also known as sheaves, onto a wagon pulled by three horses. A rooster and a chicken, like Geoffrey Chaucer’s Chanticleer and Pertelote (in “The Nun’s Priest’s Tale”), wait happily, knowing they will find grains of wheat when the nearby shock is knocked apart.

Framed Rustic Print of Horses, Wheat, and Chickens

When I exhibited my farm steam engine at the Will County Threshermen’s Association show in Illinois in the 1990s, I enjoyed loading bundles of wheat in the late afternoon. Tired from the hard work of a hot day, I somehow managed to find a burst of energy when fellow exhibitors and I walked the short distance to the field. With a pitchfork, my friends and I lifted the bundles higher and higher until the wagons were stacked to the sky with sheaves of golden wheat. We could nearly always count on the sunset to be spectacular, with reddish orange rays slanting between the bundle wagons. Don’t get me wrong! It was a workout, and my muscles screamed afterwards. The joy was in doing honest and collaborative work as it had been done in my grandparents’ and parents’ days. The banter was ever friendly; the camaraderie, always memorable.

In helping to load bundles in Will County, I learned that a shock must be broken apart before the bundles can be lifted. Shocks of wheat are carefully piled groups of bundles, with at least one fanned out across the top to help shed the rain. For most of the time that wheat was threshed—that is, before wheat was harvested by means of the agricultural implement called a “combine”—standard wisdom held that wheat should “cure” in shocks or stacks for a few weeks before being threshed. Should it rain during the curing process, much of the rain would be shunted aside by the bundles carefully spread across the tops of the shocks.

After being propped together for many days, the wheat bundles are commingled enough to make lifting one of them a challenge. By the simple expedient of easy movements with a pitchfork, the shock is loosened in such a way that the bundles become disentangled, ready for loading. In this rustic print, the man wearing suspenders is standing over a shock that has been knocked apart. His actions remind me of those jubilant evenings in Will County!

I began this series by admitting that I am a sucker for old-time illustrations that can be described as “rustic prints.” With a farming scene as spectacular as this one, I am confident that my passion for such prints can be understood by everyone.

My Friend Ginger

“How much is that doggie in the window?” sang Patti Page in the U.S. and Lita Roza in the U.K. in popular recordings in 1953. For me, Ginger was that doggie in the window. She was in a litter of chocolate brown pups for sale in the pet store where a friend of mine had entered to buy a bag of cat food. I was waiting in the car when my friend came out and said I should go in to see the cute puppies. Rather reluctantly, I entered the store. I exited with Ginger.

She was THE cutest pup I had ever seen, and she grew up to be THE snazziest dog! With elegant strands fringing her ears and tail, with dainty feet and nose, with classy bearing, Ginger was chic and smart and uptown.

My Photograph of Ginger in Her Younger Years

In her childhood, Ginger went everywhere with me. She was so small that she fit in the pocket of my overcoat that first winter. In a year before airport security tightened, she waited with me in the lobby when my brother was flying in for a visit. Everyone wanted to know her breed. I had no answer, as Ginger was a stunning cross of several breeds.

Ginger enjoyed several snowy days in a holiday resort filled with Christmas shoppers in the narrow streets lined with cheerful shops. “What an adorable puppy!” strangers exclaimed. “What breed is she?” They gently patted her velvet ears, then back she would go in my coat pocket.

During her girlhood, I taught Ginger valuable lessons. She learned to play dead, roll over, walk on her hind legs, speak, jump through a hoop, chase her tail, and stay—all on my command. She willingly demonstrated her extensive knowledge of the subjects I have named. But there was one lesson she refused to learn. Ginger would not come. When I said, “Stay,” she sat in place and smiled slightly. When I said, “Come,” she closed her mouth and glanced regally to one side, as if to say, “If you think I would demean myself to obey you, you have another think coming!” After some seconds, she would stand and walk haughtily away.

Many a time, I wished that she would come on command, but she always disdainfully declined. Her scorn was queenly. She had made up her royal mind, and I learned to respect her wishes. A dog of Ginger’s regal demeanor could not be forced to acquiesce. Hadn’t she already done more than enough to be on such friendly terms with a commoner like me?

In her womanhood, Ginger was inclined to be flighty. A knock at the door would send her into a paroxysm of barking. Afterward, she needed many minutes to calm herself down. She also developed an operatic voice. At times of her choosing, she howled. I called these performances her “arias.” Naturally, she always selected her melodies from the French repertoire.

« Que c’est beau! Vous chantez comme un oiseau, mon cher ami! »

(“How beautiful! You sing like a bird, my dear friend!”) I often exclaimed, but Ginger regretted my pronunciation’s defects.

Whenever I handed her a treat to eat, Ginger would gracefully accept it with her doll-like teeth. She would not be as coarse as other dogs that snatched the food from my hand, sometimes nipping me. No, Ginger was ever elegant, deft, refined.

Ginger Melting Hearts

The delicate dog that she was, Ginger did not live as long as I would have liked. Toward the end, she knew she was dying. She turned her long-lashed eyes toward me, as it to say she would avoid death if she could, if only to keep me company. When I buried her beside the graves of my other pets, her body reclined upon the soft pillow she had loved.